


A Noble Heart

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Coda to Amuse-Bouche, set about 2 years into their relationship, before the epilogue.Arthur gets shot, and Eames does not handle it gracefully.





	A Noble Heart

[ EAMES ]  


Arthur's been shot.

Those three words crowd out all other thoughts as Eames tears through the hospital. They echo over and over in his mind, growing larger with each iteration. His sweetheart, his beloved, his dearest Arthur has been hurt.

When he reaches the room, Eames is sweating, panting, nauseous. And there he is: Arthur, sitting up in bed, pale but otherwise awake and whole.

"Darling," Eames whispers as he lurches towards Arthur, scans his precious body. There's a bandage around his bicep and a few bruises, but no other injuries that Eames can discern.

"Hey, baby," Arthur smiles, sounding tired but not in agony. "How are you?"

"How can you ask me that at a time like this?" Eames hovers over Arthur's bedside, afraid to touch. "What did that monster do to you?"

"There was a minor altercation," Arthur says. He's picked up the English tendency towards understatement, one of the things Eames hates most about his homeland. "My arm was hit. Which was more bad luck than anything, since I wasn't the target."

"You were shot." Eames stares at the gauze. "That is not minor in any sense of the word."

"I'm fine. It went in and out clean." Arthur's still speaking, but the words fade into horrible scenarios in Eames' mind: Arthur bleeding on the ground from a stomach wound. Arthur, beaten and bloody by unknown assailants. Arthur, with a knife plunged into his heart.

It's unacceptable.

"You need to resign," Eames says.

Arthur blinks. "What?"

"If you're not feeling well enough, I can call them now," Eames says, his resolve growing with every syllable. "I can have someone fetch whatever things you have at the office and you can focus on your recovery."

"Eames," Arthur says slowly. "What are you talking about? I'm not quitting my job."

"Well, you certainly can't go back," Eames says, appalled at the very notion. "What if you get hurt again? No, I won't allow it."

"I must have misheard you." Arthur's jaw tightens. "Did you just say you're not going to allow me to continue to work?"

"I forbid you from going back," Eames says, putting a hand on Arthur's leg while images of him bloodied and beaten float before his eyes. 

"Maybe you're trying to make a joke, but it's not funny."

"Funny?" Eames echoes, perplexed by Arthur's words. "Nothing is funny about this."

"I'm not going to just--"

"Oh, that." Eames waves dismissively. "No need to concern yourself with money. I can pay the rent for your flat, cover any additional expenses, and provide a weekly stipend."

"Weekly stipend," Arthur repeats flatly.

"And of course you'll be staying with me where a proper medical team can provide round the clock care," Eames says, mind already racing ahead; his assistant will need to call the family doctor, research nurses and other staff. "Only the best."

"No, Eames, none of what you said will be happening," Arthur says, voice rising. "I'll be staying in my apartment."

"Your--that's absurd," Eames says. "There's barely room enough for a bed, nevermind doctors and the equipment--"

"I don't need extra doctors. I've been shot before and I know how to take care of myself," Arthur says. Before Eames can react with the proper horror that statement deserves, Arthur continues. "Besides, my mom is flying in--"

"Your mother is coming?" Eames feels a spike of queasiness in his gut and pushes it aside. He has more pressing matters to focus on: namely, Arthur's ridiculous ideas about convalescing like an injured wolf in the wilderness, and his insistence on remaining in a job that is going to get him killed. "I hope you're aware that she is not a trained medical professional, however well-intentioned she might be."

"She's my mom," Arthur says, with a peculiar emphasis on the word--as though that's supposed to mean something to Eames. Eames has suffered numerous injuries throughout his life and it's not as if his own mother ever stopped by for longer than it took to remark disdainfully about his clumsiness.

"But what about the infection and disease that could set in while your immune system is compromised?" Eames grips Arthur's thigh, trying to make him see the gravity of the situation. "You have a literal hole in your body! This is no time for amateurs or carelessness."

"My mom and my apartment are not up for debate," Arthur says, moving Eames' hand off his leg. 

"But--" Eames starts, stung.

"Look, my arm hurts, I'm hopped up on pain meds, and I'm not quitting my fucking job, okay?" The heart monitor starts beeping wildly and a nurse pokes her head in the room.

"Is everything alright?" she asks. 

"Yeah, he was just leaving," Arthur says, jaw set. "I'm tired."

* * * * *

The first thing Eames does when he exits the hospital is call Mal. He proceeds to rant about the lunatic who assaulted Arthur, followed by a rant about how unreasonable Arthur is being. When Eames eventually runs out of breath, Mal says, "You know I love you, but you're acting like a dick, mon petit oiseau."

"What?" Eames says, words cutting through his haze of indignation.

"Arthur is a grown man, is he not? And he was a bodyguard when you started dating, yes?" Eames grunts in unhappy assent. "Then why are you surprised this has happened? He's a bodyguard. He guards bodies, with his body."

"But never like this!" Eames bursts out. "I never thought he was in any danger before!"

"You're saying there have never been any incidents in the past? He has never been hurt before?"

"Not since we've been together." Eames can vaguely recall offhand mentions Arthur's made to interactions with crazed fans and stalkers, but they never seemed like a big deal. That bloody habit of understatement. "He should have told me he could get shot. If he had, I never would have allowed him--"

"You do know that controlling is not a flattering color on you," Mal says. Eames can't help but snort a startled laugh.

"I only want to keep him safe." Eames exhales a shaky breath. "I can't bear the idea of him being hurt--or worse. Every time I see him off to work I could be saying goodbye forever. How can I live like that? How can he?"

"Maybe those are questions you should ask him," she says. "And may I remind you that this is what happens when you date someone who doesn't listen to music. Strange things."

Eames chuckles. "You like him better than almost everyone I've ever dated."

"Only because you have picked so poorly in the past."

Eames groans and tips his head back. "I suppose this means I shall have to apologize for overreacting and have a very uncomfortable conversation with him, doesn't it?"

"If you don't want him to leave you for trying to turn him into a kept houseboy, yes."

"I'm not--" Eames swallows the truth in the words. "He's brilliant and could do a million other jobs in the world. Why does he need to do this one?"

"I don't know what goes through the mind of man with no soul," Mal says unhelpfully. "Have you tried asking him?"

It is possible that Eames has not shown as much curiosity about Arthur's work as he could have. "It hasn't really come up," he says, evasive.

"Hm," she says, skepticism loud and unrelenting over the phone.

"Do tell me that one day you will sever the apron strings tying your children to you," Eames says glumly as the specter of Arthur's mother drifts back into his mind. "A preternatural attachment to mummy is not an enjoyable quality in someone over the age of eighteen."

"I don't think that's going to be a concern for me," Mal says. "James and Phillippa both have Dom's cheerful outlook and blond complexion. If I did not spend over thirty hours squeezing them out of my own vagina, I would swear they were someone else's."

"Perhaps they'll take on your moodiness and grim outlook as they grow older. You never know."

"Perhaps." She replies, not sounding optimistic. "I am outnumbered in my own house by rambunctious, happy people. This is not what I thought starting a family would be like."

"Ugh, family." Eames puts his head in his hands and groans. "Olivia will be there."

"Amazing that you found the one man in the world whose mother isn't in love with you."

He exhales gustily. "I think her feelings have cooled to a strong disapproval. She thinks that I'm fucking dozens of groupies on the side."

"Yes, because fucking groupies is unlike you."

"That was years ago, before I met Arthur. When I was still a young idiot mistaking loneliness for horniness and sex for intimacy," Eames says. "I don't want anyone but him anymore."

"I believe you. Though I still don't fully understand why," Mal says, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like wizards and wings. "Does his mother know you feel that way?"

"I don't know. It's all I can do not to wet myself around her." Eames looks around for a piece of furniture to collapse into with a dramatic sigh, but all that's around is asphalt and shrubbery. He contents himself with pressing the back of a hand to his forehead. "Why must relationships require communication and effort and other people?"

"To torment you personally, my dove," Mal says. "To torment you personally."

* * * * *

[ ARTHUR ]

"I love you," Olivia reads aloud. "Please forgive my thoughtless words."

Arthur sighs as he takes the card. The handwriting is neat and legible, which means the florist who prepared the enormous bouquet of flowers and Swiss chocolates probably wrote it at Eames' assistant's direction.

"How often does he send flowers?" Olivia asks, mild tone belying the deeper question underneath.

"Sometimes his gestures can be extravagant," Arthur replies, caught between being angry at Eames and not wanting to give his mother another reason to dislike him. "He means well."

"Do you even like flowers?"

"I don't _dis_ like them," Arthur says, striving for diplomatic. "It's the thought, right?"

"The thought being that he screwed up, and is how trying to buy his way out of it?"

"Mom," Arthur says.

Her expression is all innocence. "Have you spoken with Raafe or Tajima lately?"

"You know I'm with Eames now."

"For how long?" Olivia asks. "And will he--how did he so charmingly put it--allow you to continue working for the duration?"

Arthur has no response to that. It's not as if he hasn't fought with boyfriends past about his dangerous lines of work, but he's never been with someone who ever felt entitled to tell him to quit before.

The prospect of breaking up with Eames makes him ache, but he's not about to give up his career--for Eames or anybody else.

The doorbell rings; Eames announcing his arrival before he lets himself in.

Olivia fusses over Arthur's bandage. "Artie, do you need anything? Do you want me to get you an orange juice?"

Arthur leans into her embrace. "I'm okay."

"You're not." She kisses his nose. "Who's my favorite little boy?"

Arthur grins up at her. "I am."

There's the sound of a throat clearing at the door.

"Hey," Arthur says, aiming for neutral but probably veering towards angry, because Eames visibly wilts.

"I come bearing a hamper from Fortnum and Mason," Eames says, setting the absurdly expensive wicker basket full of jams and tea down on the table. "Olivia, hello. How was your flight?"

"Fine," she replies. Neither of them move in for an uncomfortable, half-hearted hug, which is probably for the best.

"Marvelous," Eames says with a forced smile. "And Arthur, how are you doing?"

"I'm doing well. My mom took great care of me." Arthur's rewarded with her bright smile while Eames' fades. "Mom, could Eames and I have a minute?"

"Of course. I should buy some more groceries anyway." She picks up her purse and turns to Arthur. "You'll call me if you need anything?"

"I will, promise," Arthur says, and has to fight to keep from slipping into the syrupy tone usually comes out when he speaks to her. He doesn't think Eames would appreciate it.

Eames waits until she's gone before making his way to the side of Arthur's bed. "You received my card?" 

"I did."

"I meant it." Eames plays with the edge of the sheet. "I may have spoken rashly. Before, when you were in the hospital."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "May have?"

"I was worried--" Arthur's face must darken because Eames hurriedly adds, "Not that it's an excuse. I overstepped and I'm sorry."

"You're not here to make me quit my job and move in with you?" Arthur asks, still wary.

"I'd love for you to be near me always, but I don't want you to feel forced or pressured into it," Eames says, quietly. "And I'm sorry about the foolish things I said. It was wrong of me to attempt to control you."

Eames looks so sad and genuinely contrite that Arthur finds himself wanting to pull him close and comfort him. But this is an important conversation they need to have first. "Did I ever tell you why I went into security after I left the military?"

"You guarded a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who appreciated how delicious you look in a uniform?"

"Yeah, I guess Raafe did like that uniform." Arthur chuckles. "The thing was, I was making a difference. In Raafe's life, and the lives of everyone who cared about him." Arthur gestures at the second bouquet of flowers in his room--more modest than the one Eames sent. "Those are from my client's family. Because of what I did yesterday, two little girls still have a father."

"Why must you be this bloody noble?" Eames thumbs at the corners of his eyes, voice hoarse. "There's no call for anyone to be this virtuous and saintly."

Arthur huffs a soft laugh, and grows serious again."I know the danger is hard. Living with the reality of that isn't glamorous or sexy, it's just scary. Maybe I wasn't clear enough in communicating what my work would actually be like, but this is my calling. This is who I am."

"When I heard you were hurt, it was like someone cracked open my ribcage and reached for my heart," Eames whispers, staring down at Arthur's bandages. "You want to protect everyone. All I want to protect is you."

Arthur feels his anger drain away as he takes Eames' hand. "I know you were frightened, baby. I would be, too, if our positions were reversed."

Eames kisses Arthur's knuckles. "I love you, and I want you to be happy. I just wish--oh darling, isn't there some way you can still work in security without being on the front lines? Some way you can help people without being hurt?"

"There are management and logistics positions that require less presence in the field, and I've thought about starting my own firm, but..." Arthur ponders. "I guess I'd have to think about it more."

"That's all I ask, that you think about it." Eames pauses. "You mentioned your client and how his daughters still have a father. And it made me think about that conversation we had about--having children. Together."

Arthur tries to imagine fitting a baby into their lives. Him at work all day, in danger, while Eames tours for months at a time. It doesn't seem feasible. "Children. I guess I've never really thought about what kind of lifestyle I'd like in order to bring up a kid."

"Neither have I, honestly. I suppose it behooves us to give the matter some consideration before we bring another human being into it."

"What about touring? All the travel you do?" Arthur asks. "Did you want to bring a baby on the road?"

"God, no. Mal tried it and it was squalling chaos the entire week." Eames shudders. "No, I would cease touring for several years to stay home. I can still write my music and record in my studio if the inspiration strikes, but you and the baby would be my priority."

"Yeah?" Arthur asks as he feels his chest swell with warmth.

"Yeah." Eames hesitates as he looks at the empty space on the bed beside Arthur. "May I...?"

"Come here." Arthur pulls back the covers and Eames tucks into his side. Arthur kisses his sweet, soft lips and takes in his familiar scent. "I'm sorry you were scared."

"It wasn't your fault." Eames squeezes Arthur's waist. "I'm sorry I acted like a domineering git instead of listening to you in the first place."

"I forgive you," Arthur says, and adds, "But try not to do it again."

"Thank you." Eames laces his fingers through Arthur's. "I'll try."

fin


End file.
